A Lifetime Playing Games
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: When Anatoly returns to Russia after a year with Florence, Svetlana can't bring herself to trust him. How long will it take for Anatoly and Svetlana to rebuild their marriage? Can it ever be rebuilt, with the memory of Florence always hanging over them and Molokov's attempts to control their lives? Based off the Royal Albert Hall concert in 2008.
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER**: _Chess_ is the property of Benny Andersson, Björn Ulvaeus, Tim Rice, Richard Nelson, Trevor Nunn, all the casts and all the creative teams that had ever produced any production of _Chess_. No money is being made from this story, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**IMAGINED CAST**: Josh Groban as Anatoly; Kerry Ellis as Svetlana; Idina Menzel as Florence; David Bendella as Molokov; Adam Pascal as Freddie; Clark Peters as Walter de Corcy; Marti Pellow as the Arbiter.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: I recently watched the 2008 concert of _Chess_ at the Royal Albert Hall (and stayed up until twelve o'clock to finish it and had a flight the next day) and absolutely loved it. It was hard to understand at times, but I loved it just the same.

I'm hoping this will turn out to be very, very long. Not to torture anyone, but to see if Svetlana and Anatoly could ever rebuild their marriage after Anatoly's time with Florence.

* * *

Prologue

* * *

_He dreamed he was back in Bangkok. For whatever reason, he was in the Wat Phra Kaew, the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, where he and Viigand, along with their advisors, had been given a tour since the championship had been such a big deal to the Thai people._

_Why he was dreaming he was inside this temple, he didn't know— but you can't question the source of your dreams or make your dream-self do something you would rather be doing. He was Russian Orthodox, not Buddhist, but his dream-self didn't care about that, apparently._

_But here he was inside the temple, barefoot— his dream-self remembered the dress code, he supposed— and looking up at the huge, dark green Buddha statue. Was the statue going to blink and speak to him, like what sometimes happened in dreams? It didn't, which didn't surprise him._

_What surprised him was that Svetlana stepped beside him, barefoot as well, and joined him in silently looking at the statute._

_Guilt. All he felt was complete and utter guilt._

_Did that mean he still felt something for his long-suffering, faithful wife? He didn't know._

_She looked the same way she had when he had last seen her. Long, silky blonde hair pulled back in the fashion of the day, a simple black dress (for the dress code, his dream-self realized), her blue eyes still as beautiful and clear as the day they had first met._

_The worst part was that she wasn't even angry, as she should be. She was just so... disappointed. He couldn't stand it._

"_Katherine and Alexei miss you, you know," she said softly. She still wasn't looking at him, only at the Buddha statue._

_He looked away, shame filling him. "I can guess. But— you don't, do you?" He hated how his voice admitted his defeat._

_He was shocked when she responded._

"_I... I do. I do miss you. Things have been hard since you left. I've had to take a job as a secretary, and my mother has to take care of the children while I have to work long hours. It's affecting them, I know, and not for the better."_

"_So it's only because I'm not there to support you, then?" he asked._

_She finally turned to him._

"_No, it's— I still love you. God, I love you. I don't even know why anymore. You tell me; why do I love a man who left his family to struggle in Russia while he was having the time of his life with his mistress in England?"_

"_So deep down, what really is bothering you is Florence?"_

"_Yes." There was a desperate catch in her voice, which made him feel so, so guilty he almost felt sick. "Yes, it is. That somehow, after nearly ten years of marriage, I'm not good enough for you anymore."_

"_You are, Svetlana—"_

"_Then why did you leave me?" He knew she hated it when she begged, but now she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Tell me. Please. I've made myself sick imagining you with her. Her instead of me, while I still love you."_

_He passed his hand over his eyes. "God, Svetlana, I'm sorry—"_

"_If you're sorry, then tell me why you did it."_

_Did he know, though? Did he know why he left his wife and his family and his entire life back in Russia?_

"_Well, why didn't you have an affair of your own?" He was making a pathetic display of himself by having the nerve to actually try and make excuses. "I'm sure it crossed your mind."_

_Her eyes, blue as a clear Russian sky, stared at him. "I did. People kept telling me I should. But I couldn't. Damn you, can't you understand that?" She was nearly in tears. "I couldn't because I still love you, and the children deserved to have at least one parent who would stay with them."_

_But she composed herself and retreated beneath her shell, and she became the same distant and cool woman that he saw in interviews. If she would have let him he would have tried to comfort her._

_But she had brought up the jab of their children. She meant to, he was sure, she wanted him to feel guilty and terrible. That wasn't the Svetlana he remembered— but a year apart, he considered, was a long time. Much could change._

"_Please come home, Anatoly," she said in a pleading, throaty voice. "Please."_

"_Anatoly..."_

"Mr. Sergievsky. Mr. Sergievsky, sir!"

He woke abruptly to feel someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, and someone's face over his. He had fallen asleep in the armchair, he saw, the armchair where he had sat down wearily and told himself he would just shut his eyes, not even doze.

"What?"

It was a maid, he gradually realized. "Mr. Sergievsky, sir, Mr. Molokov sent me to tell sir that sir's plane is leaving in one hour and a half, sir. Mr. Molokov says sir needs to get ready to leave."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir." The maid bobbed a curtsy.

"All right. Tell him I'm coming. Thank you."

The maid curtsied again and left the hotel room. Anatoly stood, wincing as he unfolded his tall— and now extremely stiff— frame from the chair. Hotel chairs, hotel anything, were not the most comfortable.

But Florence opened the door and slipped inside, silent.

Was there _never_ a time when he didn't feel guilt? Here he was, with wonderful, chess-loving Florence, and he had been dreaming about his wife. He should have been dreaming about — God, he didn't even know who anymore.

There was nothing that could be said. They had talked it out last night, as the sweat attempted to dry on their skin in the muggy Thailand air and their heads were on the same pillow. She had looked so beautiful last night.

He stepped forward and hugged her, both feeling that anything romantic wouldn't be right, not now. Just being in the proximity of each other was enough, still playing the parts of _defected husband_ and _his mistress_ for a few more moments, because soon it would be over. One wonderful year would end the second he stepped on the plane.

He drew back out of the embrace and looked her in the eye. "I'm going to do my best to get your father out, Florence."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Even if we can't— even though we'll only be acquaintances from now on... I'll still remember you."

She nodded, but the light had gone out of her eyes. "It's time for you to go back to where you belong, Anatoly. With Svetlana, in Russia. Not with me."

She kissed his cheek, gently. He sighed and hugged her once more, trying to memorize the way she felt in his arms. But she drew back after a few seconds and didn't meet his eyes as she left.


	2. Chapter 1

1.

* * *

"Mommy, why are you cleaning the counters?"

Svetlana looked up to see her seven-year-old daughter Katherine looking at her with a puzzled expression. She looked down to see a wet, soapy sponge in her hand. She cleaned when she was nervous, it had been a lifelong habit— but evidently she had been cleaning the same tile for the past five minutes.

But she had a right to be nervous.

"Mommy's... busy," she said evasively. "Will you check to see if your brother is ready to go, sweetie?" Katherine nodded and obediently went to search for her brother.

She had to get a grip. Really. Enough was enough. _Anatoly_ should be the one who was nervous, not her. She sighed and put the sponge back in the sink, washed her hands, and then grabbed her purse, calling, "Alexei! Katherine! It's time to go! Get in the car!" She could hear her children thundering towards the garage, even as she shut the garage door behind her.

She could hear Katherine and Alexei protesting as Alexei, it seemed, tried to open the door and failed— but he was all of five years old, after all— and Katherine pushed open the door instead. Svetlana had to hold back a smile as she buckled both children into their respective booster seats as she listened to them argue back and forth. They pulled out of the garage a minute later.

_Why_ was she still nervous?

Svetlana was steadily growing more and more anxious as they walked towards the gate from where the passengers from Bangkok were departing, even as Katherine and Alexei shouted and laughed and pointed. It grew even worse when, upon reaching the gate, she saw a large crowd of reporters in the waiting area.

Hopefully they were all for Anatoly. Hopefully they would wait until he had gotten off the plane, and then they would turn on her— they would not ignore her, but hopefully they would restrain themselves until Anatoly appeared.

Her hopes were dashed when one of the reporters saw her. "Mrs. Sergievskya!" The children instinctively shrank back and clung to her skirt as the reporters rushed to Svetlana, and she tried to shield them as best she could as the cameras whirled and flashed and a thousand questions were hurled at her. She felt oddly detached from the whole thing, as if watching from afar as reporter after reporter held out a microphone or shoved a film camera in her face or snapped a picture or shouted a question.

Then the passengers become disembarking, coming through the doorway holding carry-on bags in their hands. Almost all the reporters stayed with Svetlana while some were posted as impromptu lookouts to watch for Anatoly.

Then the dreaded words:

"Mr. Sergievsky!"

She caught only a glimpse of Anatoly, looking weary from the flight, a leather bag in his hand, before the reporters swarmed him. Anatoly made his way through the crowd, and she noticed he did not answer any questions. Strange. He hadn't had any problem answering the questions in Bangkok or what she saw in Merano on the television.

Alexei and Katherine broke away from Svetlana, even though she tried to hold them back— really, they could get hurt running straight into a mass of knowledge-hungry reporters— but they made it to Anatoly unharmed. She knew Anatoly was unintentionally giving the reporters a good shot when he knelt to hug both children at the same time.

He had missed them, and he hadn't given her a second thought.

That hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Then he was standing in front of her, holding Katherine's hand in one of his and Alexei clutching the hem of the jacket of his suit.

"Svetlana."

He smiled, and it was so, almost genuine that if she were not looking closely she would have been fooled.

"Anatoly. It's so good to have you back home." She reached up— she was, in reality, quite shorter than he— and hugged him. Both knew this was an act, but hopefully the children and the reporters wouldn't guess.

"Where is your luggage?"

"At the baggage claim area."

She was hoping they would lose interest... But the reporters followed them still as they walked through the terminals towards the baggage claim, as if collecting luggage from a baggage carousel was anything noteworthy. So much for privacy. But she knew that when Anatoly started becoming famous with his numerous winnings.

_Focus, Svetlana_.

As they walked together hand-in-hand for the cameras' sake, she could feel his tension radiating off him as if it were naught but body heat; she knew he felt the same way about her. They held the other's hand a little too stiffly, their shoulders brushed only on accident instead of from affection, the smiles they gave each other a little too forced. She hated all this false show of fondness and love when clearly anyone should be able to tell it should not be working like this; but everyone was too bullheaded to realize it.

After a few minutes of making polite conversation with Svetlana, Anatoly grabbed his suitcase— only one, which was surprising as he had spent a year away from home, surely he would come back with more; but he had always packed light, she knew— and they finally managed to leave the airport. The reporters, however, followed them all the way to the parking garage, even to Svetlana's car. She desperately wanted to say something, for Alexei and Katherine were becoming scared, but she did not want to risk a huge shouting match because that would frighten them even more.

Finally, Anatoly's suitcase and bag were in the trunk, the children were safely in their booster seats, and they were ready to leave. Anatoly and Svetlana made a show of him opening the passenger door for her, which she kissed him lovingly for, since she was "so overjoyed he was home", and finally, _finally_ the doors were shut and locked and there was relative quiet.

"Thank God that's—" Anatoly began, but Svetlana gently (because the reporters were still taking pictures through the windows) touched his arm, cutting him off.

"Svetlana? What—"

She led a finger to her lips to gesture for silence and quickly wrote on a pad of paper in absolutely tiny handwriting, because if the reporters took a picture of the paper and figured out what she had written... she didn't want to think about what Molokov would do. Anatoly had to squint slightly to read the extraordinarily small, neatly written six words:

_The car is bugged_. _Be careful._

Anatoly raised his eyebrows, but he did not look entirely surprised. Then he took a pen out of a pocket inside his suit jacket and wrote one word.

_Molokov?_

She nodded. His expression hardened, and he added a line.

_Somehow I'm not surprised._

Svetlana ripped the paper from the pad's binding and tore it into shreds, then tucked the pad into the glove department as Anatoly started the car. The reporters were smart enough to clear a path for the small car to get through, but still shouted questions through the windows and took pictures, even as the car pulled away and disappeared into the labyrinth of the airport's parking garage.


	3. Chapter 2

2.

* * *

Katherine and Alexei chattered to each other and Svetlana and Anatoly the entire ride. They did not seem to notice the brief responses they received from their parents, nor the thick, heavy, tension filling the car, growing every second until, as they pulled into the garage, it became unbearable.

The children unbuckled themselves and scrambled into the house proper, shouting, but Svetlana and Anatoly did not move; the children could take care of themselves for a few minutes. They stared ahead through the windshield to the wall of the garage, stiff and stoic. Then Anatoly leaned over, slowly, and whispered a sentence into Svetlana's ear, speaking so softly she had to strain to hear it.

"_Is the house bugged as well?_"

He drew back and waited for a response. She quickly shook her head. He sighed. "All right," he finally said, in a normal tone. "Let's go inside. I'll get my luggage later." Molokov, Svetlana was sure, would not find anything suspicious with that piece of dialogue.

When they got inside, however, they still did not have time to talk, for Alexei and Katherine ran to Anatoly, clinging to him, and they wanted to show him their rooms and all the changes a five- and seven-year-old could make in a year. Svetlana let them go on, because Anatoly deserved some time with his children, and she needed to clean, anyway.

Well, not _needed to_, exactly. The house was already fastidiously clean. It came back to her nervous habit, true, but she wanted to take her mind off how every second Anatoly was with Alexei and Katherine, it was one second closer to when he would come back in, alone, and the confrontation would begin.

She heard a single pair of footsteps coming to the kitchen. Even though he had been gone for a year, she still could remember how he walked, and anyway, the footsteps were too heavy for Katherine or Alexei.

He appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, hesitating.

She did not know what to say or how to start this. But this was not her fault; by all rights, _he_ should be starting, with an apology.

"Svetlana..."

She did not turn around, but still kept scouring that single piece of tile. She was fairly certain the tension she felt was showing in her stiffened shoulders and the way she was hostilely moving the sponge back and forth as if to scour a hole through the tile.

"I want to say that... well, I mean— thank you for even letting me come back. I won't have been surprised if you wouldn't have."

"I had to do it for appearance's sake, you understand."

"Yes. Was it for Molokov? The press? Both?"

"Perhaps."

"Svetlana— could you please turn around and look at me? We're getting nowhere like this."

Her hackles rose. She turned sharply to face Anatoly, and before he could say anything more, she began talking.

"I want to make one thing very clear to you. You are only allowed in this house because the children deserve to have their father back and because I'm saving your damn reputation. And perhaps it's a little for me, but that is only because Molokov has been threatening me and watching our every move since you left. So you will stay here for the children's safety and _nothing else, do you understand?_"

She did not know what reaction she wanted from him, but defeat, even if it was to be expected, made her stomach twist into knots.

"I understand," he finally said. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight, then."

"And for a long time afterwards."

"Yes."

"I am going out for a while. Why don't get to know _my_ children better?"

The emphasis was clear, and everything she had said left no room for any argument.

It was only by the grace of God he was allowed back at all. Or, he thought somewhat blasphemously, would it be the grace of Molokov?

* * *

Svetlana could feel tears behind her eyes as she drove, but she swallowed them back as best she could.

She pulled into a group of apartment complexes and parked. This was not the best area of Moscow, but here, at least, Molokov would not think to look for her. She got out of the car, went up two flights of the outdoor staircase to one of the doors, and knocked. The door opened a minute later.

"Svetlana! What are you doing here? I thought you'd be with Anatoly!"

"Can I come in, Veronika?"

"Yes, but— I was watching the news coverage of Anatoly's arrival and everything looked fine."

"It's called acting, Veronika," she said shortly.

"What's his mistress like? Is she a complete witch? Is she a professional whore or someth—"

"Veronika!"

Veronika looked surprised. "What?"

"'What'? _'What'_? We've been friends since primary school and all you can say is _'what'?_"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Why don't you come sit down, you look like you're going to break down any second."

Svetlana let herself be led to the broken couch. She fought back tears as she sat down, Veronika sitting beside her.

"All right. Just talk it out. Do you want a beer first?"

Svetlana shook her head. Coming home drunk would not set a good example to the children, and it would give the wrong message to Anatoly. "No, thank you."

"Say whatever comes to your head. I won't tell anyone."

Veronika's promise of keeping her secret— when the car was bugged, when she was watched every time she stepped out of the house, when Molokov kept calling her and threatening her— was the breaking point.

She began crying as she started talking, and as she continued, the few tears turned into sobbing. When she finished, she knew she looked a mess. But Veronika didn't seem to care.

"What am I going to do? Every time I see him, I know he's wishing that _Florence_ was here instead of me, that _Florence_ was the mother of his children, that _Florence_ was in bed with him. _How did this happen?_ How did I become not good enough for him?"

"You _are_ good enough," Veronika tried to comfort her. "All the boys wanted to date you in secondary school."

"Then how is that _my own husband_ doesn't want to be with me?"

"He's a complete asshole."

"Don't you _dare_ say that about him!"

"Svetlana, why are you still defending a man who left you for another woman?"

"_Because I still love him!_"

"Oh." Veronika was momentarily deflated. She put an arm around Svetlana's shoulders. "That changes a lot. Why didn't you mention that earlier?"

"It didn't seem important."

"Svetlana, it's _enormously_ important. I don't _why_ you still love him, but..."

"What am I going to do? How am I going to live with a man who wishes he was seeing his mistress on the other side of the bed every morning?"

"I don't know. Focus on your kids, while you can."

"I've done that already, but I suppose I can— do part-time at work or something." Svetlana was half-taking to herself more than to Veronika. She gathered her things to go, hands shaking, and stood to leave, but Veronika stopped her.

"Svetlana, can you tell me one more thing before you leave?"

"What is it?"

"Why are you still in love with him? After all he's put you through?"

"Because... because..."

Then the words came out in a torrent, as if a dam had broken and she couldn't hold it back any longer.

"Because we were friends first, you must understand, and we were friends for three years before he had the courage to ask me out, and he was so sweet and nervous— and he was actually a gentleman, not like the other boys, and he actually listened to what I had to say and he didn't just go out with me to get me into his bed and he didn't even pressure me to sleep with him and then he— he was so kind to me and he was someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with and he actually loved me for who I _was_, not because I was some trophy he could win, and— and..."

"I wanted you to say that out loud. So you have some reason for going back to him."

Svetlana stood and went to the door, pushing it open. "Thanks, Veronika. I know it was a lot."

"That's what friends are for."

Svetlana smiled a little, the first time she had since she had seen Anatoly. "Have a good night, 'Nika."

"You too, Sveta. Drive carefully, all right?"

"I will." Svetlana went down the flights of stairs to her car and left, praying that somehow, the disaster that was her life would be fixed.


	4. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: Hello everyone!

So I found the entire cast list for the _Chess in Concert_ DVD. I'm pretty sure it's as official as you can get without it being written by someone who was involved in the actual production. That said: the children who appeared with Kerry Ellis in the video during _The Interview_, for some reason, were listed (by their first names only). And guess what?

They were both girls.

So I've made a blunder in saying both in _A Lifetime Playing Games_ and _A Knight in Shining Armor_ that Anatoly and Svetlana had a son and daughter. I'm not going to change it, simply because it would take too much work to edit it all. But just so you know.

* * *

3.

* * *

Anatoly was surprised he even remembered where half of the things were in the kitchen.

He made dinner for Katherine and Alexei, because they were hungry and it might possibly appease Svetlana. It was bachelor food, true, but it was better than nothing, and they didn't mind.

They'd changed in the year he had been gone, he saw, with a guilty pit sinking in his stomach. Katherine had about five teeth missing now, while Alexei only had one tooth gone, right in the front of his mouth. Katherine still wore her hair in two pigtails that swung back and forth as she talked, but Alexei kept squinting so much Anatoly guessed he might need glasses. Katherine had fairly good manners— probably learned from Svetlana— and she kept poking her brother to remind him; it never did work, though.

They were so unaware and just— _accepting_ that he could feel his conscience screaming at him, asking him why he had left this for a woman in another country.

They all three were washing the dishes— well, Anatoly was washing the dishes, Katherine was drying them (for the most part) and Alexei was a little too enthusiastic with the dish soap— when Svetlana returned.

Katherine and Alexei ran at Svetlana, because to a seven- and five-year-old, an hour apart felt like a month. He could only imagine how a year had made them feel.

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy—"

"Yes, Alexei?" Svetlana broke in before Alexei could continue in that cycle. She bent down and brushed a stray hair out of his eyes.

"Daddy made us dinner, mommy, and he made us help him wash the dishes, and he let me play with the soap!"

"Did he, now?" Svetlana kissed her son's forehead and stood, meeting Anatoly's eyes. She mouthed, _Play with the soap?_

_Not exactly_, he mouthed back, and couldn't help grinning. She smiled back— but then she seemed to remember herself. She took Katherine's little hand in hers and said, "It's past your bedtime, you two! Why don't we get you ready for bed?" Her cherry attitude was clearly forced as she led the children to the bedroom they shared. Anatoly decided to hang back and went to finish the dishes.

He had just finished loading the dishwasher and started it when Svetlana came back, looking tired. Not knowing if this was the right thing to do but deciding to try anyway, he gestured to a plate on the kitchen table and offered, "I left a plate for you, since I noticed you didn't eat any dinner..."

She avoided his eyes, but surprisingly, she murmured a quiet "thank you" and sat down at the table. He started to finish cleaning the kitchen, and as he did so, he noticed she didn't actually eat anything; she only fiddled with the food a little before simply laying the fork to the side. She had always been slender, but she was now thinner than before. Money had probably been tight, but he remembered noticing offhandedly Alexei and Katherine were looking healthy. And with the stress of Molokov watching her every move... Was she taking care of herself at all?

"I know it's only bachelor food, but it can't be _that_ bad," he threw out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sure it's wonderful." Svetlana passed a hand wearily over her eyes, putting an elbow on the table. "I'm tired, that's all. I think I'll turn in for the night." She stood. "Thank you for the plate, Anatoly. I'll get some blankets before I forget."

He'd nearly forgotten he would have to sleep on the couch. A wonderful way to combat jetlag, but he didn't say anything except "thank you". She only nodded and went to a closet to pull out a folded quilt— it had been her mother's, he remembered— and went into the spare bedroom to bring a pillow to the living room.

"Good night, Anatoly," she said as she walked down the narrow hall to the master bedroom— the master bedroom she would now occupy alone.

"Good night, Sveta," he responded without thinking.

She stopped short, and even from the living room, he could see her shoulders tense. She turned.

"That's _Svetlana_ to you."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

She merely looked at him one final time, her eyes hard, before turning and shutting the door of the master bedroom behind her.

His first night back, he had managed to make her angry at least twice. _Great thinking, Anatoly. How much can you destroy your marriage?_

Now that the house was finally quiet, he had time to think, at least.

As he spread the blanket over the couch, just about to lie down, the phone rang, seeming to echo around the house. He quickly picked it up and answered it before Svetlana or either of the children woke.

"Hello?"

"Anatoly! How was the flight to Moscow? You seemed to be doing all right according to my sources in the capitol."

Molokov.

"Molokov, do you have any regard that it is nearing eleven o'clock? Where are you?"

"In St. Petersburg, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that you arrived safe and sound back in Moscow. Enjoying a wonderful night with the lovely Svetlana...?"

"Don't talk about her like that!" Damn, he'd spoken too loudly. And to make matters worse: if Svetlana could hear him, she was probably thinking he was talking about Florence.

"Oh, come it off, Sergievsky. Don't sound so honor-conscious when we all know that it isn't true. Listen, I'll be calling up every now and then to check on how things are doing. Perhaps even drop in for a visit. How does that sound?"

"Just leave us alone, Molokov! If it's me you want, fine, but leave my family out of this! Stop bugging the car and following Svetlana and— They've gone through enough as it is."

"And all because of you, don't forget." He could hear Molokov laughing quietly. "Have a good night, _Tolya_."

He hung up the phone, furious, but he heard a quiet voice behind him.

"Anatoly?"

He turned to see Svetlana just outside the door of the master bedroom, dressed in a short-sleeves shirt and sweats, her long hair loose around her shoulders. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Molokov," he replied wearily. "It was nothing important, I took care of it." She didn't look entirely convinced, but retreated back into the master bedroom. He sighed and went back to the couch, thankful that Katherine and Alexei hadn't woken, as far as he knew.

For how long was Molokov going to control his family?

* * *

Svetlana had spent almost the entire night staring at the ceiling.

This was what she had wanted. But it felt so strange to have Anatoly home she didn't know what to think.

What was he thinking? Wishing he was back in England, with Florence? Not even caring about their children? Regretting even considering the idea of defecting back to Russia?

But she forced herself to think about it logically. He _did_ care about their children, from what she saw at the airport. He just didn't care about her, despite all his obvious lies about her mattering to him— but that was to be expected.

What should she be feeling? Happiness, that her family was finally complete, that her husband was back by her side? Pride, that she had taken Anatoly from Florence? Feeling no longer jealous of Florence?

The clock read two in the morning. She sighed and got out of bed. She went to the small bookcase by the wall, bent down and slid a decorated box off the bottom shelf. She gently set it on the bed.

Their wedding album was inside this box.

_Why_ did she torture herself like this?

The first page had one picture on it: Svetlana standing in her bedroom and facing a full-length mirror borrowed for the occasion, dressed in her wedding gown. Her mother was placing the veil onto of her daughter's curls, and in retrospect, Svetlana couldn't remember a time when she had felt happier, except for the births of both Katherine and Alexei.

The next pages were of several of the traditional rituals used in Russian weddings: one of her married friends placing one of the earrings (pearl, a gift from her at-the-time-recently-passed grandmother) in Svetlana's ear; and the _vykup nevesty_, the "ransom ceremony"— Veronika had dressed up as one of the false brides.

The next was of the "betrothal" part of the actual wedding ceremony. There were photos of them standing in the entrance of the church with the lighted candles as the _ektenia_ was read, the prayers were spoken, and the rings were placed on their hands.

Then there were photos of the "crowning" part of the ceremony. There was a shot of them following the priest to the carpet, and another shot of Anatoly with a microphone in his hand, as he said why he was marrying her and that he wasn't "promised" to anyone else. A picture of her saying why she would marry him and that she wasn't promised to anyone else hadn't made it into the album.

Oh, the bitter irony of the entire thing.

There was a page filled with photos of Veronika and their best man holding the crowns over her and Anatoly's heads as there were more prayers and passages of the Scriptures were read and she shared the "common cup" of wine with Anatoly. The next page was of the "procession", with the priest's _epitrachelion_ covering her and Anatoly's joined hands, and they were lead, three times, around the stand holding the Gospel.

Then, although there were no photos of this part of the ceremony, the benediction had taken placed and they had left for the Department of Public Services, for the _rospis v zagse_. There was a shot of Svetlana laughing when greeted with her family at the civil center, all holding bread and salt.

There were no images of the civil ceremony itself, because the Department hadn't allowed it. But there were a few photos, taken afterwards, of the now-shattered crystal glasses, lying so innocently on the floor. You wanted a million tiny pieces, for that traditionally foretold a long, happy marriage; if it turned out to be a few, large pieces... the marriage would be filled with strife, and most likely would be short. Their glasses had broken into a decently sized amount of shards: not too little to cause alarm for the happiness of the marriage, but not enough to cause joy for their future.

There were photos of herself and Anatoly holding the doves in their hands, and of the balloon, with her maiden name written on the rubber surface, floating in the sky. The next few pages were filled with their professional wedding pictures. There they were in front of the Bolshoi Theatre, and in front of the Tretyakov Gallery, and the St. Basil's Cathedral, and the Kremlin, and the house where Gorky had lived.

The next pages were of the reception. There was one photo of the Gorko kiss, and then the toast to both Svetlana and Anatoly's parents. There was a picture of Anatoly and Svetlana dancing together, and then pictures of Svetlana dancing with Mr. Sergievsky and Anatoly with Mrs. Abakumov. In all the photos of the reception, the _Tamada_was circling through the crowd, often talking with Anatoly or Svetlana.

They had just been so— so _happy_. And completely naïve and unaware of how their marriage would turn out, almost ten years later.

If Svetlana had known how everything would play out in the end when she had met Anatoly for the first time, she wouldn't have given him a second thought.


End file.
